


3 years

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:02:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And suddenly Baker Street wasn't so empty</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 years

**Author's Note:**

> You may notice this is not my usual schtick. But it had to be written. I'm sure you understand. Sufficient interest might see another chapter with GL because goddamn I love me some salt'n'pepper

Mrs. Hudson is puttering about and vacuuming the halls of 221 Baker Street this Saturday morning. London is grey, but then it is always grey so there's no reason to think that today will be at all special. Having lived here most her life, Mrs. Hudson finds the wan light coming through the door's window comforting in it's absolute regularity. When she's done here, she thinks she's going to make a pot, perhaps bring up a cup to John in his offices. She doesn't think that he has any appointments today, so it will be a writing day and he'll have forgotten to have a proper breakfast. Not that she's his secretary or anything.

The noise of the vacuuming covers the sound of a key in the lock and she only notices someone enter when the door opens and the light shifts. The light suddenly much brighter, she squints up into the halo surrounding a dark figure.

"Oh, I though I'd locked that..."

"Indeed you did Mrs. Hudson, but you never changed the lock." He jangles the keys and the voice chills the blood in her veins.

"No... it can't be..." A name, a whisper about to leave her lips and then she's fainted, the figure left standing over her.

\--

He's typing away at his laptop when the doors opens. Still pecking, no concept of home keys or touch typing. So focused on what he's writing that he doesn't look up. He's aware of the footsteps but pays them no mind. It's him and Mrs. Hudson and given the weight, she's probably come to bring him breakfast, dear lady. Eyes flicker to the time in the corner of the screen and yes, he hasn't eaten since he woke up three and a half hours ago. He finishes a sentence and stands to help her with the tray, a slight and thankful smile on his lips.

His eyes come up. The smile vanishes. He goes white in the face, legitimately white. So white that it begins to eat into the sides of his vision and he's swaying, about to faint. And then a hand grabs him by the shoulder, righting him. A shake of his head and he covers the hand with one of his own. And then tears it from his shoulder.

"What. The bloody. Fucking. HELL?!"

"Well, you're taking this much better than I expected."

"Three years! You've been alive for three years and you never told me! I can't bel- Actually, no, I can." The fight and anger all go out of John Watson as he collapses into his chair. His hands cover his face and rub it slowly. Muffled, "That's the hell of it. I can. I did. I believed."

"John, I..."

The hands slam down on the sides of his chair.

"No!" Emphatic, final and delivered with a familiar detached and self-mocking calm. "No John, I's. Sher-... Sherl- oh god, you right bastard do you know how difficult it is to say your name right now."

He's covered his mouth with one hand but does nothing to hide the welling tears. A ring glimmers in the apartment/office's light. Sherlock Holmes has absolutely no idea how to proceed, so he gathers his hands behind him, straightens up and goes with the obvious. "You've gotten married I see."

"THREE YEARS SHERLOCK!"

"Yes, alright would you stop saying that. I am sorry, but.."

"Are you? Are you really? Could there actually be some glimmer of conscience or emotion behind that calculating veneer of selfish arrogance? Consider me shocked." John looks away, angry and disappointed. With Sherlock and himself. Where's the relief? Where's the joy? What the hell is wrong with him?

"John I couldn't contact you because I had to keep you safe while I..." A halting hand is raised. "Oh for God's sake John, am I going to be allowed a single complete sentence."

"No. We will do this on my terms. Which are not now. Out." He rises and grabs his coat. "Come on, out."

John fairly well drags Sherlock out of 221B and deposits him on the sidewalk. "I am going in that direction. Please do not follow and give me some time to deal with this... development."

"How much time?" Sherlock manages to look vaguely like a confused puppy trying the figure out how to "sit."

"About one hangover I should think," calls John over his shoulder. There's no answer from Sherlock and he doesn't have the courage to turn back. His stride carries him along Baker Street and at the intersection of Park Road he crosses. The park, he thinks. They're good for this sort of thing usually, right? His phone vibrates, signalling a text.

I am sorry.  
And I missed you.  
-SH

A pause.

Three years.  
You would.  
-JW

They're called emotions.  
Glad you have them.  
-JW

Glad you're back.  
-JW

\--

Pub - 1730  
He's back  
-JW

Who's back?  
-GL

OH  
-GL

Jesus Christ.  
U alright?  
-GL

Pub - 1730  
-JW

At crime scene.  
Want to stop by  
then pub?  
-GL

He'd probably follow.  
Want him there?  
-JW

Pub - 1730  
-GL

May be late  
-GL

May be shitfaced  
-JW

Have the scotch waiting.  
I'll catch up  
-GL


End file.
